


The Second Twelve Days of (JSAMN fanfic) Christmas

by Owl_by_Night



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Further tags to be added later, Gen, Hogwarts AU, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night
Summary: It is that time of year again, and it was so much fun to do last time. Twelve fics for the twelve days1: Between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning2: Christmas at school3: A night at the theatre4: On the Fifth Day of Christmas5: Untitled crossover between Ungentlemanly Warfare and Grantchester6: Untitled Flora/Grant7: Major Merlin sharing a bath8: Major Merlin modern AU9: Companion to the modern AU above (Wellancey)10: A true Scotsman - an Ungentlemanly Warfare new year11: Two ways to mend - continuation of the Wellancey modern AU12: First Day of Forever - De Grancey baking verse





	1. Between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Ungentlemanly Warfare universe, as Christmas Eve turns into Christmas Day and Arthur's sons are visiting the Christmas after the original fic ended. Title is taken from the Tailor of Gloucester.

It is Christmas Eve and all through the house, not a creature is stirring… except Arthur, kissing a line down William’s neck and insinuating a hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas.  William groans softly. 

“Shhhh..” Arthur says warningly to the skin beneath William’s ear. 

“I’d like to see you be quieter.”

“I hope you will.”  Arthur stops any further argument with a kiss.  With Arthur’s sons staying for the school holiday, time to indulge in this kind of thing has been extremely limited.  If it weren’t Christmas, they perhaps wouldn’t take the risk, but Christmas demands a reward for patience. 

“Oh… oh God…”

There is an interesting silence, broken by an unholy scream from upstairs.  The two of them leap apart as though electrocuted.  One of the boys is crying. 

“Fuck,” Arthur says, full of meaning, “fuck.”  He thumps his head back against the pillow. 

“Dad?” calls a voice from the top of the stairs, “Dad, where are you?” 

Before William can even think about it, Arthur is up out of the bed and into his pyjamas and dressing gown.  “I’m coming Artie,” he calls as he leaves. “What is it?” 

William listens to him making his way up the stairs and tries not to feel too bitter about his own interrupted plans.  He can hear sobbing from upstairs, the serious sort of sobbing that means real fright, but Arthur’s voice is calm enough so he thinks it can’t be anything too bad. 

After a while he starts to drift, as the voices upstairs grow quieter.  It has been a long day after all, work not stopping because of Christmas Eve.  Footsteps creak on the stairs again: more than one set of footsteps unfortunately.  After a minute or two there’s a tap at his door. 

“Yes?” he calls. 

“Please may I come in?”  It’s Artie, peeping around the door frame with his hair sticking up in tufts from sleeping. 

“Yes?” William says again.  He tries to sound as friendly as he can, although he’s awkwardly aware of being only partially dressed beneath the blankets. 

“I’m sorry about the noise.  Charlie had a nightmare you see, about Mum.  He does sometimes.  Dad’s making cocoa.  Do you want any?  I can bring yours in here if you aren’t feeling well.” 

“I’m sorry, if I’m not?”

“If you’re not feeling well.  Sorry.  Dad said you weren’t, when I couldn’t find him.  He said he was here because you weren’t feeling well.  I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have said…”  Artie stumbles to a stop and looks miserably self-conscious.  The boys still haven’t forgotten their promise to Arthur in the summer to never ask him anything, and William wishes Arthur had come up with a different excuse, although there aren’t all that many for being in the wrong room well after midnight. 

“Artie, it’s fine.  It’s all... fine.  I’ll get up.”  He hadn’t been going to, but since he isn’t going to be doing anything else he had planned and cocoa is on offer he might as well.  “Can you pass me my dressing gown?”

“Of course.”  Artie grabs it from the back of the door and holds it out.  William tries to wriggle into it without showing too much, grateful that at least Arthur had only got as far as removing half of his pyjamas.  He’s not quite quick enough though, and he hears Artie’s soft gasp behind him. 

“Is that from the…” Artie stops himself mid question. 

“From the crash?  Yes.  It’s… not as bad as it looks.”  William ties the dressing gown tightly.   

“It looks like it must have hurt a lot,” Artie says with a worried frown.  He is, William has learnt, something of a worrier.  Not a path William wants him wandering down, particularly not now.  He’s getting used to it, but well-meaning sympathy makes his skin crawl. 

“It’s getting better.  Now, you said something about cocoa?” 

In the kitchen Arthur is at the stove, stirring milk in a saucepan while Charlie sits on the kitchen table, rather red eyed.  He’s got one of Arthur’s blue hankies in his hand but he smiles up at William. 

Artie perches on the table beside Charlie, swinging his legs.  In the middle of the night all the rules get to be broken, including the ones about not sitting on tables.  William props himself against the doorframe as Arthur looks up at him and smiles. 

“You heard there was cocoa then?” 

“I did.”

“Mum always made it, after bad dreams,” Charlie says.  His lip trembles a bit. 

“It’s what you have to do, isn’t it?”  Artie asks the room at large.  William agrees, although his memories of childhood nightmares never involved the whole household being awake in the middle of the night or much beyond being told to go back to sleep. 

Arthur fills three mugs from the saucepan.  There’s one mug of tea already waiting, probably because the milk wouldn’t stretch to four mugs of cocoa and William wants to kiss him for it, for being one of the many ways that Arthur says ‘I love you’ without words. Artie carefully carries the tray of mugs to the sitting room and Arthur carries Charlie, who must have left his slippers upstairs. 

This morning they decorated the house for Christmas and so they have a little tree up in the corner of the room.  It’s hung with decorations the boys made earlier in the week and things begged and borrowed from people in the village, and the scent of it lingers in the air.  There are a few parcels under the tree now, which Artie eyes with interest.  Brown paper made brighter with ribbon, interesting shapes that beg to be felt and guessed at.  William did his own shopping weeks ago, going with Colley into town and agonizing over the choice.  This is the first time he’s bought something for Arthur and he wanted it to be right. 

“I know it’s technically Christmas, but you still have to wait until morning,” says Arthur, “both of you.” 

Artie shrugs philosophically and grins at William.  “It is really Christmas though, isn’t it?” 

“It is.  It’s after midnight now.” 

Artie settles into the armchair with a beaming face and William is reminded of how it felt when he was young, to be up past his bedtime or during the night.  Charlie is less enthusiastic, the nightmare still not forgotten, so Arthur settles on the sofa and offers him the space beside him.  He seems surprised when Charlie wriggles onto his lap instead but he goes with it, ruffling his hair and tucking the corner of his dressing gown over Charlie’s bare toes. 

They don’t say much.  Arthur looks tired after the long shift today, sipping tea and leaning his head against the back of the sofa, one arm around Charlie.  Artie looks like he’s quietly soaking up every possible second of Christmas spirit and William, drinking cocoa, thinks that there is something rather magical about it, sitting here in the semi darkness, with the Christmas tree and the paperchains hung around the room and all of Christmas day stretching out before them.  With only the oil lamp for light, the ornaments and decorations glitter and strange shadows stretch across the ceiling.  Not quite Christmas Eve but not quite Christmas Day: it’s a time apart from anything.  Once as a boy he’d sneaked out of bed in the middle of the night to see the Christmas tree and he feels an echo of that same thrill now. 

“Come on,” Arthur says softly, “bedtime for you.”  He takes Charlie’s mug from his unresisting hands and lifts him.  His head droops against Arthur’s shoulder, nearly asleep already.  “You too Artie.” 

Artie yawns widely and scrubs at his face.  It’s a very familiar gesture of Arthur’s when he’s tired, and one that makes William smile when he sees it copied.  Like father like son.  He’s glad they seem to be easier with one another than they were in the summer. 

 

William stays put while Arthur puts the boys back to bed.  Not how he’d planned the evening, but he can’t complain.  It’s so very quiet tonight: no church bells ringing in Christmas, no planes flying. He’s nodding a bit as Arthur returns

“All tucked up,” Arthur says.  He picks up Charlie’s cup and drains the last of the cocoa. 

“Are they alright?”

“I think so.  I suppose it’s hard for them.  Christmas is different now, without their Mum.”  Arthur frowns, looking round the sitting room and William suspects he sees it very differently, a shadow of what it once was.  “And the war as well.  Nothing is how it was.  No wonder he has bad dreams.” 

“Hey,” William says, familiar with this train of thought, “it’s different.  That doesn’t mean it’s bad. You’re making new traditions for them.  Which hopefully won’t always mean cocoa in the middle of the night, but if it does that’s not the worst thing in the world.” 

“You might be right. And it’s not bad, all things considered.” He looks around the room again.  “I suppose what you really mean is that I should stop thinking about it and go to bed.”  He offers William a hand up of the sofa. 

“Want me to wash the mugs?” William asks. 

“No, they can wait until morning.  I expect the boys will be up early enough.” 

The two of them flop back into bed together, neither of them mentioning that Arthur is meant to be sleeping upstairs.  The sheets are cold again but Arthur is warm.  William puts his cold hand on Arthur’s arse and his burrows his cold nose into Arthur’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, “I might be too tired now.” 

“S’alright.  Me too.  Tomorrow?” William pulls back so he has space to kiss him.  “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

“Merry Christmas, flyboy.”


	2. Christmas at school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hogwarts AU which I have no excuse for whatsoever! No real shipping in this one.

The quiet takes some getting used to, out of term time. Hogwarts is usually overflowing with people and noise. It was almost eerie at first to wake up to near silence. Still, it's better than being at home. Since his mother... now there's only his father at home, Jonathan has chosen to stay at school for as many of the holidays as he can.  He's starting to like it.

He rolls over in bed and stretches: time to find breakfast. Maybe time to find company as well. He could get a little too used to the silence and the Slytherin common room isn't the cosiest of places in the middle of winter.

In the Great Hall he surveys his options. At the Ravenclaw table, Gilbert Norrell and his cronies are gathered together. Not company Jonathan would ever seek out: he regrets that all the Ravenclaws he actually likes (like John Segundus) are away. Gilbert would be enough to give anyone indigestion at this hour of the morning.

At his own house table Emma Wintertowne is sitting directly opposite Walter Pole, the muggleborn Hufflepuff she says she loathes. They are both trying very hard not to stare at one another, even though there are hundreds of other seats they could have chosen to avoid being directly in line. Jonathan suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Aside from the lovelorn, the only other Slytherin at breakfast is Wellesley: captain of the Quidditch team. Even if he weren't a year ahead of Jonathan and apparently disinclined to acknowledge that Jonathan exists, the combination of kippers, open book of Quidditch strategy and scowl are enough to convince anyone that interrupting him is a bad idea.

Which leaves... them. At the table no self-respecting Slytherin would ever approach.

Jonathan is wondering if breakfast alone would be that bad really when the red haired one (De Lancey, in the year below Jonathan and beater for the Gryffindor team) calls out, “want to join us?”.

“I err…”

“We all had Christmas lunch together yesterday: there doesn’t seem much point all sitting at different tables now.”  With his toast still in hand he waves at the empty chairs. 

Jonathan sits down opposite him.  It would be too pointedly rude to ignore them now, and while his father would tell him rudeness to a Gryffindor doesn’t count, his mother would certainly have had something to say about it.  Grant, who is in Jonathan’s year, gives him a look that’s approaching a glare.  Clearly he isn’t as happy as his friend to have a Slytherin joining them for breakfast. 

“So you’re Strange then?” De Lancey asks him with the gleeful expression that signals an incoming joke about Jonathan’s name.  It’s always the way, unless it’s someone wanting to ask about his relationship to the Lestranges (which is distant, his great-grandfather quarreled with that branch of the family in his youth). 

“Yes, very Strange, nobody quite like me.”  Jonathan rolls his eyes. 

“Sorry, I suppose you get it all the time.” De Lancey says, “feel free to ask me if I’m sure I’m not a Weasley.”  He grins and pulls at a strand of his hair.  Jonathan reluctantly finds himself smiling back. 

“Do you want juice?” Grant is offering the jug, looking as though the words might choke him. 

“Yes, thank you.”  Jonathan holds out a cup.  In the ensuing awkward silence, he helps himself to toast and bacon. 

“So why are you here for Christmas?” De Lancey asks him, propping his chin on one hand and studying him with open curiosity.  “My family’s all in America at the moment.” 

“I.. uh…” Jonathan drinks juice to cover his lack of answer.  There are things one doesn’t say, particularly in front of Gryffindors, and mentioning his father is one of them.  He really should have kept to himself. 

“One of these days, William, you are going to land yourself in so much trouble because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”  Grant gives De Lancey a disapproving look and, from the sound of it, a swift kick under the table. 

“What?”

“You know what.  So, what are you doing today?” Grant asks Jonathan with an air of one determined to change the topic or die trying. 

Jonathan, grateful for the escape, says, “I’m not sure really.  I’ve got a transfiguration essay to do, but I’d rather not spend all day in the library.” 

“We were going to play Quidditch,” De Lancey says, “if you want to join us?” 

“I’d like to but, I haven’t played much recently.” 

“Don’t worry,” Grant says, “neither have I.”  He smiles at Jonathan for the first time, his reserve slightly broken in the companionship of those who can take or leave Quidditch when faced with the obsessive fans. 

“You do alright as Keeper,” De Lancey says, “so long as you don’t fly very far.” 

“Thanks,” Grant says drily. 

The universe gets its revenge on De Lancey shortly afterwards, when one of the sprigs of mistletoe comes zooming into the hall and hovers over his head.  The sprigs unfold downwards, tangling into his hair.  The problem with magical mistletoe is that it won’t let the victim go until someone takes pity on them. 

“Colley?” De Lancey asks in wheedling tones. 

“Not after you insulted my flying.”  Grant turns his attention back to his plate. 

Jonathan hides his smile at De Lancey’s outraged expression.  He shakes his head: he’s not going to volunteer either. 

“Oi, Wellesley!”

The older Slytherin ignores them.  De Lancey sighs dramatically and picks up a bread roll, tosses it in his hand a couple of times and then lobs it with pinpoint accuracy at the back of Wellesley’s head. 

“Are you mad?” Jonathan asks him as Wellesley stands, slamming his book shut. 

“Help me out, would you?” De Lancey says with a complete disregard for Wellesley’s murderous expression. 

“Don’t worry,” Grant says quietly, “they know each other outside of school.  Quidditch mad, both of them.” 

“William, are you actually incapable of keeping yourself out of trouble for five minutes while eating breakfast?” Wellesley asks him with a sigh.  De Lancey, the mistletoe now tickling his nose, grins sheepishly. 

“Sorry Art.” 

“And you can’t help him because?” Wellesley addresses his question at Grant, who shrugs. 

“He insulted my flying.” 

Wellesley rolls his eyes, then bends down and presses a kiss to De Lancey’s lips.  The mistletoe detatches itself in a flurry and swoops off in search of its next victim. 

“Ugh, kippers,” De Lancey says, reaching for the pumpkin juice, “why do you have to eat those things?” 

Wellesley doesn’t deign to reply, but he sits down at the table and opens his book again, reaching for a mug of coffee.  Breakfast continues in mostly companionable silence and Jonathan, making his way through his second bacon sandwich, is glad that he joined them after all.  It feels good not to be on his own, and if he can join in with the Quidditch game later, the day is looking better than it was. 

“You said you had an essay to write,” Grant says, rather hesitantly. 

“Yes, transfiguration. Have you done yours yet?” 

“Not even started.  If you want company in the library some time, let me know.  You’re good with Transfiguration, aren’t you?” 

“I suppose.”

“Have you read De Generibus Artium Magicarum?” 

“I tried.  McGonagall said I should but it’s… well, it’s a bit…”

“Boring?”  Grant smiles warmly at him.  “I thought so too.  Actually, I told her that and she suggested I look elsewhere.” 

Jonathan can’t quite imagine telling McGonagall that a book she included on a reading list is boring, but that’s reckless Gryffindor bravery for you. 

“Any chance you could tell me what she suggested?” 

“Of course, in fact, we could go now if you’ve finished.  William, we’re going to the library.” 

De Lancey groans theatrically. 

“Well you don’t have to come,” says Grant, “but I’m going.” 

“Well if I must, I do have astronomy homework.  I can bring the American sweets Mum and Dad sent.  Will you bring the Muggle ones?” 

“You have Muggle sweets?” Jonathan asks, then bites his tongue when he realises how he sounds. 

“My Dad’s a muggle actually,” Grant says, a bit stiffly. 

“I didn’t mean… I just meant I hadn’t had Muggle sweets before.”  He hasn’t, although he’d like to, in defiance of his father’s rules. 

“Sweets in the library?” Wellesley sounds disapproving, “and I can’t say I care for De Generibus, but if you’ve got Mars bars count me in.  Quidditch afterwards?” 

 

The morning passes in a pleasurable haze of magic and sweets.  He learns that Grant is interested in the process of becoming an Animagus, which he’d been thinking of himself, and instead of the reading he meant to do, they find themselves trying out spells to predict animagus form.  Grant’s prediction looks entirely fox-like, while Jonathan gets a funny sort of weasel thing.  Not the most impressive creature to turn into, but he can see the possibilities. 

Mars bars are good, but muggle licorice is nothing like as good as wizarding licorice.  The American sweets range from the excellent to the just plain weird, and when the sugar gets too much, they head outdoors to the snow covered grounds. 

There aren’t really enough of them for a proper team even with the other students playing, so they play with only keepers and chasers, throwing a Quaffle around with enthusiasm.  Grant is keeper for their team, while Jonathan ends up as chaser, although he isn’t exactly a natural at it.  It’s a good thing there’s thick snow on the ground and none of them are flying that high. 

Whatever the rest of them are doing, Wellesley and De Lancey are apparently on a personal mission to flatten each other.  Wellesley feints a throw with the Quaffle and then follows it up with a snow ball, catching De Lancey in the face.  The two of them tangle together, trying to get as much snow as possible down the backs of each other’s jumpers. In the ensuing snowball fight, any thoughts of house rivalries are forgotten. 

Jonathan leads a victory dance around the pitch, one arm slung around Grant and the other around Walter.  He stops, out of breath, staring up at the stone walls of Hogwarts rising above them, and feels suddenly that this is home now, and far more home than his family house in Shropshire.  

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Grant says, following his gaze. 

“More magnificent inside, where it’s warm,” Wellesley says.  He has De Lancey draped upside down over his shoulder.  “There is so much snow in my clothes I either need a hot bath or to drop him headfirst in a snow drift.” 

“Bath then,” Jonathan suggests, “revenge isn’t best served cold when you’re freezing as well.” 

 

Jonathan began the day in silence.  He certainly didn’t expect to end it surrounded by a group of what feel like friends, lying sprawled before the fire in the Hufflepuff common room.  Walter suggested it at dinner, since it’s close to the kitchens and they don’t mind other houses coming in much. 

Grant smiles at him across the chess board and commands one of his knights. Not what Jonathan had been hoping he’d do, but he still has more traps to spring. 

“I like Hogwarts at Christmas,” Grant says while Jonathan studies the board and nibbles at the end of his peppermint candy cane.

“Me too.” 

“I know it’s different in term time, but if you’d like to play again, even after the holiday is over, I’d like that.”  He fidgets with the sleeve of his red knitted jumper. 

“I would, like it, I mean.  If you would.” 

There’s a bang from across the room where William is beating Arthur thoroughly at Exploding Snap.  They look at one another and grin. 

“Well,” Grant says, “if those two can manage to be friends in different houses, I don’t see why we can’t do the same.” 


	3. A night at the theatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This follows on from two previous evenings with Emma and Sir Walter post-JSAMN canon. The first two can be found in Chapters 9 and 11 of 'Stories from Tumblr'. 
> 
> Sir Walter takes Emma to the theatre

Neither Emma nor Arabella care much for music nowadays, though neither of them openly acknowledge why.  Emma did tell him once that it all sounds discordant to her now and he shudders to think what faerie music must ring in her ears when she is invited to a ball or concert.  He has resigned himself to the loss of the joy of dancing with his wife. 

The theatre however, is a very different matter.  It gives him pleasure to find something that is calculated to please her, something light that might make her laugh. 

The gossips hide smiles behind their fans and say that Sir Walter is embarrassingly besotted with his wife, but he no longer cares what public opinion says of him.  He is after all, a trusted friend of one of the most celebrated groups in society.  He dines with the Duke of Wellington and his officers, with Arabella Strange, a woman that everyone worthy of note would like to call a friend, and with Lady Emma Pole, author of the most shocking articles on the restoration of English magic.  He edits her work and deals with publishers, and that is position enough for him. 

His choice of evening entertainment is a success this evening.  The Duke is unable to attend, but Major Grant is present and Mrs Strange is in good spirits.  Emma herself is in the best of humours: she is witty and charming, laughing at the absurdities of the play, entertaining her companions as easily as she had when they first married. 

Afterwards he offers her a seat in his carriage to drive her home, and they find themselves alone.  Emma is talking about the playwright, a young man with plans for magic on the English stage, reviving the old plays that relied on magical skill for the staging of them.  Walter had felt a pang of something akin to jealousy, watching the two of them talking, but now Emma’s enthusiasm seems more to be directed towards the principle of the thing than the handsome playwright himself.  He listens to her plans for another article with enjoyment. 

“Where are we going?” she asks after a while, peering out of the carriage window at the darkened streets.  There has been a sharp cold in the air since Christmas and the frost is making the pavement sparkle. John Segundus had written to them of heavy snowfall in Yorkshire when he sent the latest section of his biography of Jonathan Strange. 

“To Mrs Strange’s house,” Walter says in surprise, “I thought there were no further plans for the evening?”  In truth, he has been hoping to be invited for a last dish of tea before returning home. 

“No plans that I know of,” she says, “but I thought perhaps we might return to Harley Street.” 

“But… my dear…”  He halts, choking on the words that this is not appropriate, not proper. 

“Yes, Walter?” 

The use of his name feels strangely intimate. 

“You have no chaperone.  To be visiting a man’s rooms, at this time of night… and the house is not as it ought to be at present.”

“You are ever the gentleman, but we are married.  Don’t you think, in the circumstances, it might be permitted?  I shall not mind if some of the rooms are shut up.  I assure you I have seen worse places.” 

“Of course, if you are certain.”  He knocks the roof of the carriage with his cane and gives instructions to the driver. 

 

The house has never been fully reopened since they returned to England.  Sir Walter found it difficult to employ staff willing to work in a house long reputed to be haunted or enchanted.  He had kept only a loyal few and opened up only his bedroom, and his library where he took his meals and worked. 

Emma has never seen his bedroom.  Even when she lived in the house it had always been entirely his domain.  A place that he retreated to.  Still, she makes her way there as confidently as if she had always been in the habit of it. 

Once there she circles the room, examining the books he has on the shelves, running her hand over the dresser where his brushes and shaving things are laid out and over the mantelpiece as though learning the room.  She pauses before the small desk.  He hadn’t even thought about the miniature he has of her, painted before their marriage.  The artist had well captured her beauty. 

“I didn’t know you still had this,” she says in surprise. 

“I always did.  When you were away… I wanted something to remind me…  Should I have moved it?”

“No, why would you say that?”  She looks up at him, her hand still resting on the frame. 

“I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be welcome.  Emma… my dear…” 

“Yes Walter?” 

She is the one who kisses him in the end. 

 

In the morning, Walter is woken by the rattle of coals in the grate as the manservant lays and lights the fire.  The curtains around the bed are drawn, with only a crack of light falling across the pillows.  There’s a chill in the air this morning. 

Beside him, Emma is just stirring.  In all the times they have been together as man and wife, this is the first night that they have shared a bed.  He has always done the gentlemanly thing before, leaving afterwards for his own room so that she might enjoy a good night’s rest.  He finds a joy he didn’t know he had been missing in waking up beside her. 

Her hair, which he had so slowly unpinned last night, lies tumbled over the pillow and around her shoulders.  Scandalously, neither of them are wearing anything beneath the blankets: not at all the sort of behavior he would have expected of himself, but she had been insistent, tugging his shirt over his head, taking her time in looking at him in the frank, assessing way that had alarmed and excited him in equal measure. 

She had been… wonderful.  In all the months since he went to Venice to find her, in all the time he has spent with her since then, getting to know her again and learning to love all the things he wishes he had seen in her from the first, he had never dared hope for this.  To have her in his arms again, as his wife. 

“Good morning,” she says quietly, looking at him from so intimate a distance away across the pillows.  She smiles, with something he hopes looks like love in her eyes. 

“Good morning, my dear.”  He must be smiling very foolishly, because she reaches out and runs a hand down his cheek.  He catches it and holds it in his own.  She is, he realises, still wearing her wedding ring. 

The door closes quietly, so they must be alone again.  They can be undisturbed if they choose. 

“What did you wish to do today?” he asks. 

“Well,” she says, “I have the article to finish, and I’d like your opinion on it.  But first….”

“But first?” 

“First,” she says, rolling them over so she is lying on top of him, her hair falling around them both, “I want to spend the morning with you.  We have a great deal of lost time to make up for.” 


	4. On the Fifth Day of Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was intended to be Chapter 5, but I'm now posting a bit out of order. 
> 
> Set twenty years or so after canon ends, Segundus and Childermass attend a wedding and discuss the nature of matrimony.

The wedding, as everyone attending agrees, is a complete success. The bride is as beautiful as a bride ought to be, and the groom a little nervous but only enough to convince the audience that he is suitably in love with his new wife. The guests are willing to be pleased with all the arrangements and find things to praise not censure.

John Segundus is one of the most willing to be pleased. It is his usual habit to be pleased by the world, but he has particular reason to be delighted today. The bride is one of his first female pupils at Starecross and he has watched her grow from a shy young girl to a self-assured magical scholar. He would almost say that he feels paternal towards her but it seems a little forward to think it. He is perhaps an honorary uncle, and the thought gives him a warm satisfaction. 

The bride certainly thinks well of him in return and requests her second dance with him after the first with her new husband. Segundus is not a natural dancer by any means, being both shy and a little awkward on his feet, but he does his best to navigate the dance floor without disgracing himself or damaging the train of her dress and smiles broadly for the whole dance.

Her next choice of partner is a surprising one. With the excuse of it being her wedding day, so he cannot refuse her, she asks Childermass. The other pupils present giggle, knowing their gruff teacher and unable to imagine him doing something so frivolous as dancing but Segundus can only hide a smile, knowing as he does that Childermass is a very skilled dancer. Somehow the man has learnt a range of dances, from the wild frolics of taverns and country fairs to the stately dances acceptable in any ballroom. He once confided that at the Hurtfew servants' dance he was the most sought after partner and could spend an evening without sitting out a single dance.

Sure enough, once he has done his duty to the bride he finds himself with a queue of young ladies hoping to be asked for a turn. He dances with all comers, from the youngest girls to the oldest of chaperones. Segundus watches him with joy. He does not dance much himself, but enjoys the skill of the small band and the whirl of the dancers. Most of all he enjoys seeing such happiness on Childermass' face as he dances.

Eventually, as all good things must end, the festivities draw to a close and the bride and groom are sent on their way with many congratulations. The music continues and the wine still flows but Segundus and Childermass must drive back to Starecross tonight and the way is a long one. They make their farewells to the Honeyfoots and other acquaintances and go down to find their carriage. It's a little open carriage that Childermass drives himself, so that they need no servants to wait for them. Childermass is unusually conscious of the comforts of the servants, continuing to occupy that space between them and those they serve even though he is treated as a gentleman (albeit an eccentric one) by the rest of the world.

It begins to snow before they are halfway home, falling in large white flakes to cover the Yorkshire countryside. Fortunately they are warm enough, Childermass in his big, caped coat and Segundus wrapped in the blankets they keep for the purpose. Childermass drives with one hand, keeping the other tucked into Segundus' own beneath the blanket. It's safe enough. The horse is a steady beast who knows the road and after an evening in the public eye, the affection is a comfort.

"Will they be happy?" Segundus asks as the road rises and the snow covered countryside is spread out beneath them under the moon and scudding clouds.

"Aye, I suppose." 

"You always know better than I do how things will turn out. I want them to be happy, and he seems a good enough sort of fellow, but I am no expert on matrimony."

"You are as much an expert as I am."

“Well I suppose it is true that neither of us have ever been married, but you have more experience of the world.”

“Neither of us have been married?  Well what have we been doing these last twenty years?”

“That is not marriage.”

“Is it not?”

“So far as I am aware John Childermass, you have never stood with me in front of a priest and made binding vows of matrimony, which is, as we have been so recently reminded, a union between man and woman for the procreation of children and prevention of sin.”

“Oh aye, if you’re going to be picky about it.”

Segundus says nothing, only looks at him with exasperation.  Childermass squeezes his hand. 

“Well the look on your face is one I’ve seen on many a spouse over the years.  A marriage is not just a service in front of the parson.  It’s a life lived together, and you’re forgetting the other reason: mutual society, help and comfort.  See, I was listening while the old man droned on.”

“You could have fooled me!”

Childermass, it is true, has a habit of sleeping in church.  He will nap through any part of the service with an uncanny knack of knowing when to wake up and kneel or sing.  Throughout the rest he is oblivious, no matter how many elbows dig into his ribs or how many feet kick his ankles.

“Well I wanted to hear what our lass was saying.  But you’ll not distract me so easily.  What of living together for better and worse, in sickness and in health?  We’ve done all that, haven’t we?  And I’ve no desire to run off with another, we’ve been faithful to one another.  No standing up in Church would make it truer than it is.  There’s many a marriage made without call for a parson.”

Segundus sits in stunned silence.  Childermass takes it as an opportunity to continue. 

“And as for the procreation of children, well, that is beyond our abilities but so it is for some married folk and we’ve brought up more than our fair share together.  Why, our eldest girl has just made a very fine match.  We should be proud.”

“You should stop spending time with Mrs Honeyfoot and her friends.  A ‘fine match’ is all very well but I’d rather have her happy and the two are not always the same outside of books.”

“She’ll be happy though.  I’d have had words with her husband if I thought otherwise.”

“You have a very longwinded way of answering my questions.  That was all I wanted to know, none of this nonsense about marriage.”

“It’s not _nonsense_ John, I meant it.”

“John Childermass!  Do you really mean to tell me you’ve been thinking yourself married to me all these years!”

“Well that’s what I’ve been telling you.”

Segundus sits quietly, watching the familiar scenery of the road to Starecross.  Despite the weather he feels as warm as if he were sitting at his own hearthside, and there is a smile on his face. 

“You’re very quiet,” Childermass observes, his voice is carefully measured but Segundus suspects he is smiling too. 

“I have been thinking.” 

“Aye?”

“Thinking that you have never bought me a ring.  It is very remiss of you.” 

“True.  I have never been one to fuss about the niceties.” 

Childermass’ hand squeezes his a little more tightly.  They say no more about it, but only enjoy the rest of the journey home. 

 

A few days later, Childermass makes a trip into York on school business.  The snow still lying thick on the ground makes it a long journey and he returns only in the gathering dark, stepping into the hall and brushing snow off his caped coat. 

“John!” Segundus calls, “I am glad you have returned safe.  Just in time for supper too.  Did you bring the paper and the salted fish?  I have heard no less than six times this morning how important that it was that you bring it.” 

Childermass laughs and shrugs off the heavy coat.  “I did indeed, and more besides.  I’ve a few books that might be of interest to you, and this.” 

Into Segundus’ outstretched palm he drops a small gold ring.  A signet ring, engraved with JS and the Raven and Star motif of Starecross school. 

“It was time you had one, it seems.”

“John…” 

“Anyway, I’ve a letter from our lass too.  See how proudly she’s put her married name on it.  You’ll be wanting to read it.”  He slides the ring onto Segundus’ finger.  It fits perfectly, as Childermas alone could judge, being intimately familiar with every dimension of each other after these long years.  “It looks well enough,” he says, although with a questioning note to his voice. 

“Very well, John, how can I thank…”

“No, no, no thanks.” Childermass brushes it away, as is his wont.  He likes to pretend a level of Yorkshire gruffness he had once but that has softened with time, at least where Segundus is concerned.  “You go along and read that.  I’ll get the horse stabled and join you in a minute.” 

He goes, leaving John Segundus standing in the hall, admiring the warm gold of the ring.  It would perhaps not live up to the fantasies some of the young ladies at the school concoct when imagining receiving a ring from a young man but to him, it is enough and more than enough.  After all, they have been married some time. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very self indulgent crossover between Ungentlemanly Warfare and Grantchester. Because I can. And because I have always thought that Leonard ought to meet some nice boy one day and be happy. 
> 
> A brief note on ages - this is set in the late 1950s which puts Arthur in his mid-fifties, William in his early forties and Artie in his mid-twenties. Sidney Chambers is in his late thirties (taken from book canon) and I’ve always assumed that despite how it was cast, Leonard is slightly younger as he is earlier in his career. So in my head he’s in his early thirties. Age gaps abound, but nothing particularly unusual. If nothing else, Artie has gone looking at his father and William and thought ‘well, if it works for them’.
> 
> Leonard should probably come with some sort of warning for his internalised belief that he will never be happy, but although he doesn't know it, this is the beginning of him being very much happier.

It’s Sidney’s fault he’s at the party.  It always is, with his habit of well-meaningly dragging Leonard to events in the interests of encouraging him to have a social life.  If he’d known the party was going to be quite like this, full of quite this many loud and overwhelming people, he’d have been firmer about wanting to stay at home with a good book and Dickens for company. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was out here.” 

A young man is standing there, wine glass in hand and face turning pink.  Leonard feels a pang of sympathy for him.  He’d been glad to find the conservatory free when he made his own escape.  Glad enough to stay despite the chill seeping through the glass. 

“Don’t mind me,” he says, “unless you’d rather I went.  I’m afraid I’m not very good with this sort of thing.  I was looking for a bit of quiet.”

“Which I’ve just interrupted,” the man says with a rueful smile, “I am sorry.  I can go back inside if you like, but I was just hoping for a minute away from that lot.”  He gestures towards the door and the babble of voices rising loud over the music. 

“I really don’t mind if you stay.”  

The two of them catch each other’s eyes and blush.  It’s a familiar feeling for Leonard, but he wonders why the young man should be so shy.  He’s attractive enough (which Leonard feels guilty for noticing, given that there must be half a decade or more between them in age, to say nothing of him being…. male) and he sounds as though he’s used to charming people until he stumbles into sudden shyness. 

“Who made you come here tonight?” 

Leonard startles guiltily at the question. 

“How…”

“You looked so miserable I thought you couldn’t be here voluntarily.”  So much for Leonard’s hopes of pretending to be happy to be there, at least enough not to be considered rude. 

“Sidney, Sidney Chambers, the canon in our parish.  He thinks it’s good for me to get out more.” 

 “My father says the same, and our hosts are family friends.  He said it was good for me to get away from my books.”  The man grins at him, boyish and attractive in a way that stings.  Leonard grasps at the straw he’s given as a distraction.

“Your books?  You are studying… I mean…”  Leonard wonders if the man is younger than he looks. 

“Oh, I’m at Cambridge, doing research.  Engineering.” 

“Oh.”

“What about you?” 

They stumble through an awkward conversation about respective educations, somehow managing to avoid killing the conversation stone dead when Theology is mentioned.  Leonard isn’t used to scientists who will excuse him talking about Kant, although he tries to reign himself in, and he’d never thought he could find descriptions of aircraft engines so interesting.  In fact it’s something he’d never really considered, in the general way of things and he follows it until his lack of knowledge of the technicalities brings the conversation to a muddled halt. 

The music from inside gives them another topic.  The other man, belatedly introducing himself as Artie, shares rooms with a man with a similar taste in music to Sidney and there’s a lot to be said about the pleasure and pain of living with a jazz aficionado.  In discussing music they do like, Leonard finds himself forgetting the cold room and the awkwardness that has been lurking over his shoulder all evening. 

“There’s a concert, at the end of January.  If you happened to be in Cambridge perhaps…”

“Artie?” a voice calls from the door. 

“I’m here,” Artie says, startling upright in his chair where he had been leaning earnestly forward. 

“Slipped away again, I see.”  The man who enters the room is older, but unmistakably related to Artie and Leonard assumes they must be father and son.  His face is one inclined to severity but the look he directs at Artie is warm.  In a quick glance he seems to take in the room, almost hawk like.  Leonard shifts under the scrutiny. 

“This is Leonard, Leonard, this is my father, Arthur Wellesley.” 

“Pleasure to meet you.”  Arthur holds out a hand to shake, firm but not crushing as Leonard had half expected.  “I believe I met your canon earlier, engaged in some kind of argument about music with Major Grant.” 

“That sounds very likely.” 

“Indeed.”  Arthur turns his attention back to Artie.  “So, William and I were thinking of leaving. Do you want a lift back to town?” 

“Oh, I uh…” Artie flushes again and glances at Leonard, “I thought perhaps I might stay a bit longer.  I could get a lift with Charlie.”

“Getting a lift with Charlie and his latest girl?  You’re a braver man than I am.”  Arthur gives Artie an amused look.  “I shall see you for lunch on Sunday then.”  Leonard wonders if he’s imagining it, or if Artie really is opting to stay for his sake. 

“Do I have to send out search parties for both of you now?”  The voice from the doorway is exasperated.  Leonard looks up to see a man leaning against the door frame, one hand in his pocket.  He wonders if this is William, although Leonard had assumed him to be Artie’s brother and this man looks older, his red hair threaded with grey. 

“I was just going to come and find you,” Arthur says, “Artie is staying on a bit.” 

“Staying?” The man looks surprised, but Arthur shakes his head minutely.  Leonard gets the sense of a conversation taking place which he is not part of.  The other man gives a small, one shouldered shrug. 

“Well then Leonard, I’m glad to have met you.  Artie, make sure your brother gets home in one piece.  Goodnight.”  Arthur nods and leaves with William.  As he does, his hand falls casually to the small of William’s back.  Just a brief touch, but so familiar that Leonard, even as he is aware that he is jumping to conclusions, feels the sharp ache in his chest that such gestures of affection always bring him.  Not jealousy exactly, but the painful awareness of their absence in his life. 

Artie is watching him, noticing and Leonard is afraid for a moment of what he might say next.  Instead he smiles and leans forward again.  “So,” he says, “about the concert in Cambridge…”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new ship for the new year: Flora and Grant. 
> 
> I had an idea for these two meeting when Arabella returns to England, both of them trying to support Bell and missing Jonathan because both of them wanted something more with him. I don't think I can write it all, from the first meeting and realisation of what Jonathan meant to the two of them becoming friends and more, but this is at least the beginning of the happy ending.

"Major Grant?" 

He looks up at Flora from where he has been staring intently into the library fire.

"You have left Mrs Strange to her visitors then?"

Flora laughs, "yes, Arabella is far more patient than I can ever be with the society gossips."

"That is true." Grant smiles and Flora likes the effect it has on his face. He is too serious most of the time, almost stern, and she likes the moments when his reserve is broken. It makes him more the romantic hero she thinks a gentleman in a red coat ought to be.

"And what is your excuse, sir?"

"My excuse?" he says, the reserve instantly returning, "it was only that I... I had some letters that I thought to dispose of."

He looks down at the sheets he is still holding.

"Are they from Mr Strange?" Flora asks gently. She knows, though of course she shouldn't as a young unmarried girl, that Major Grant's feelings for Mr Strange had exceeded that which society permits. She should be shocked, but while it was surprising, it also seemed something very wildly romantic. Certainly she can understand it, having spent her own time in Italy miserably aware that Jonathan Strange has two loves in his wife and his magic and no room for another.

"You are burning them?" she says, thinking of her own small box of letters hidden in her room, "did you not want to keep them?"

The top of the letter is inscribed in Strange's effusive hand: my dear Grant. She puts her hand out to stay the progress of the letter into the flames.

"No," he says, gently taking her hand away, "it is better to be done with this.  It is not because I am trying to force myself to change how I... my feelings for Mr Strange. Those feelings... they have changed quite naturally and this is to mark an end to it. You do understand, don't you?"

The press of his fingers becomes a little tighter and Flora notices suddenly that he is still holding her hand. She had almost forgotten it. His face in the firelight is very warm and very kind and she is suddenly struck by the thought that whoever had him as a rock to lean on would be fortunate indeed.

"I believe I do understand, yes."

"Good."

He lets go of her hand to crumple the last sheets and throw them into the fire where they flare bright and then blacken. He sighs, but it is not the wistful sort of sigh Flora might have thought appropriate for such a moment, more the calm sigh of a job well done.

The clock chimes in the hall and calls attention to the sound of departing guests. It makes Flora very aware of the two of them, closeted alone in the library in a way her aunt would disapprove of. Although, she thinks, it is only Major Grant. He has always seemed perfectly safe and respectable company...

Her thoughts falter. He always has seemed very safe, and very good company, and if not the romantic hero she had hoped for in a man, he is at least a soldier in a red coat and... she flushes, wondering if her thoughts are leading her astray. A rather different sort of romance to going to Italy and being passionately in love, but something altogether more serious. 

There had been a moment in Venice where Mr Strange had looked at her, not with any romantic intentions, but as a capable, serious person who could help him and even though she had wished him to see something else, she had been glad of his regard.  Major Grant has always treated her in that way, and the thought of being admired by someone who already sees her in that way has its appeal.  Major Grant is not the sort to write 'my dearest darling' in a flowing hand (like the letter upstairs from the poet) but the thought of him writing 'my dear Flora' puts a very warm feeling around her heart.

He is watching her, with the softest look she has ever seen except for how her Papa used to look at Mama. Flora is conscious of a feeling of something new growing, still young and tender, but living none the less.

"I believe Mrs Strange's visitors have gone. Perhaps we should go and join her for tea."

She likes him for not saying 'before you are missed'.  He offers her an arm, as he has done many times before but now seems to have more significance.

"You are going to Lady Jersey's tonight?" he asks, although he should already know that the whole household is going apart from Emma.

"Yes."

"Then perhaps, if you wish it, I might claim a dance. Or two?"

"I would be delighted."

"Perhaps the supper dance then," he says and Flora nods, because then she will have his company throughout supper and time to talk, which she always enjoys and... Flora wonders if perhaps she has been a little blind.

"And the waltz?" He asks gently, as if uncertain of her reaction. Flora has permission to dance it, and has done so, but Major Grant has never made such an offer before. She imagines herself in red coated arms, in the most intimate of the dances.

"I should like that."

"I am glad." He leans forward a little, as though he might be thinking of kissing her, but then pulls back with a smile as if remembering where they are. His expression is lighthearted, almost boyish, and Flora smiles back. If this is what falling in love is like, she's glad it's not all seriousness.

"So then, a cup of tea?" he asks again. 

“Certainly, Major Grant,” she tells him, and lets him lead her from the room. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Chapter 3 of the last twelve days, where Merlin made it snow in the peninsula as a Christmas gift for Grant. Now back in England, the two of them spend another night together over Christmas.

They are both drunk of course. One does not survive one of the Duke's evening parties sober, particularly not when you are friends with Colonel De Lancey. It's why they are both here, in Grant's rooms, rather than bidding each other good night outside Strange's house. There's a safety in the drunkenness. A drunken army officer may offer to share a bed with his friend if it is to get him out of trouble for going home to his wife in a disgraceful condition. They can hold one another up, touch one another affectionately, even, as they have done tonight, call for a bath and share it when one of them comes home soaked in brandy.

Merlin is dozing by the time the bath is filled. Grant dismisses his manservant for the evening with a coin and a quiet, "thank you George, leave the water to morning and don't call us."

"Yes, Sir," the man says with undisguised disapproval.  He has been with Grant long enough to get away with it. "I can only hope, Sir, that if this is how you are, that someone had the presence of mind to put the Colonel to bed before he did himself a mischief."  George knows De Lancey well.

"I'm sure someone did."  His Lordship probably, God help him.

George sniffs and turns to go, picking up Merlin's coat as he goes. "I'll see what I can do with this an' all.  Brandy in his hair!" He leaves, still grumbling.

"Come on Merlin," Grant says, dragging him up by the hand. "Bath's ready."

Merlin looks owlishly at him. "My dear Major, are you trying to get me out of my clothes?" 

“Yes Merlin, but for the bath first.”  He reaches for Merlin’s cravat. 

Merlin makes no move to help in the removal of his clothes, he only watches and Grant feels himself flush under the full weight of Merlin’s gaze. It has been a while since they were able to indulge, with Christmas and living in town, so much more observed than they had been in the Peninsula. Strange's brother in law coming to visit had also diminished their opportunities to be alone, and moments such as these are to be treasured.

Grant is so very tempted.

His hand, tangling into Merlin's hair to pull him down for a kiss, encounters the stickiness of brandy and whatever else had been on the floor of the inn when Merlin had toppled backwards off his chair, glass in hand.

"Come on Merlin," he sighs, "bath first."

Hot water does nothing to sober Jonathan, so his washing involves a quantity of water slopping onto the floor, which Grant finds uncharacteristically amusing.  Eventually Merlin gives up on washing himself, preferring instead to bask and watch Grant and then lie in abandoned bliss when Grant takes over and runs the washcloth and soap over his body.

He washes Merlin's hair too, fingers catching in the curling strands. He pours the rinse water unsteadily and it splashes his breeches. Perhaps he is less sober than he thought. Drunk enough that when Merlin tugs at him he topples, only half stopping himself and landing half in the tub, clothes soaked, laughing and joyfully uncaring of the consequences.  Merlin kisses him, a little uncoordinated but determined.  His hands wander to the buttons of Grant’s sodden waistcoat, struggling with the damp cloth. 

“Wait, wait Merlin, not in the tub!”  Grant tries to disentangle himself from Jonathan’s wandering hands. 

“This is the first time I’ve had you alone,” Jonathan says reproachfully, letting go. 

“I know.”  Grant kisses him again, and each of his wet hands.  “But I’ve no desire to drown you.  Go on, get into bed.  I’m going to get out of these wet things and I’ll join you in a moment.” 

He strips and washes in a hurry while Merlin rolls himself into bed, a damp-haired bundle of blankets and a borrowed nightshirt.  He is half drowsing beneath the sheets when Grant crawls into bed himself, candles extinguished and the fire fed. The linen is crisp and new and the heat of Merlin's body makes a warm space under the blankets. They curl close. Merlin runs a hand down Grant's cheek and kisses him. He tastes of brandy.

"Do you remember that Christmas," he asks, "in the peninsula?"

"Yes. You made it snow.  It was very beautiful."

"You said you did not wish to be alone. I did not want you to be alone tonight." Merlin draws closer, pressing them together so that Grant can feel the heat of him and the hardness beneath his nightshirt. His hips twitch forward.

"I'm sorry.  I was trying to be serious, but I cannot help wanting you at the same time."

"I know.”  Grant smiles at his rueful expression, feeling lighthearted with Merlin’s presence and the lingering warmth of brandy.  He tugs Merlin's nightshirt up, feeling the length of him, watching Merlin bite his lip.

"Your hands," Merlin groans. He catches Grant's hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses the palm, the tips of his fingers, kissing and licking at the calluses and the soft skin between his fingers. He laves Grant's palm with his tongue until it is slick and pushes it down again, their hands linked, sliding against both of them together. They groan, and Grant drives his hips forward. He is breathless, heated beneath the blankets, pushing them away.  Merlin clings to him, hands roaming.  He cups Grant’s arse, promise of what they would be doing, if they had more patience.  They kiss, Merlin all tongue and teeth, rolling over until Grant is pinned beneath him.  He fumbles, tangled in bedlinen, resting their foreheads together. 

“I missed you,” he says. 

They lose themselves for a while in the heady joy of being together, free to do as they please.  Afterwards, lying together, still breathing hard and sticky, Merlin gathers Grant closer to lie with his head on his shoulder.  Grant goes willingly, feeling the rise and fall of Merlin’s chest beneath his cheek. 

“Do you know,” he says slowly, tracing the line of Merlin’s collarbone with his hand, “I think that I never had a Christmas gift so fine as the day you made it snow.” 

Merlin tightens his hold for a moment.  “I’m afraid I am too tired to do so again tonight.  Besides, it would melt, and then you’d have to explain the water.”  He sounds tired, on the verge of sleep.  It is very late now and the fire burning low.  The bed is warm, and there is no need to do anything but drift.  Grant laughs quietly. 

“It does not matter.  You are here Merlin, that is all the gift I need.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A modern major merlin AU. Jonathan starts a new job and finds himself distracted by one of his fellow passengers. Written because I have to go to work today!

Jonathan is starting to recognise his fellow commuters on the train each morning, even though it hasn't been that long since he started working for Norrell. Some of them beginning to stand out from the crowd of the sleepy eyed and business suited. There, in the corner, is the woman with the bright floral print dresses and there the girl who always looks as though she needs three strong coffees before she'll be ready to face the day, putting on makeup in a tiny mirror. The skinny boy with his headphones in and his hood pulled over his head no matter what the weather sits on the other side, and the lycra clad cycling enthusiast perches on the last seat as if afraid someone might walk off with his bike. And then... him. The quietly gorgeous one with the loud and chatty ginger friend. Occasionally, when the ginger one is being particularly bad at oversharing (Jonathan now knows more than he ever needs to about the man's job, his colleagues, and his ill-advised fling with someone who is probably his boss), the man will look up and meet Jonathan's eyes in a rueful, apologetic way. Jonathan smiles, and then they look away, embarrassed at breaking the unwritten rule of train travel never to acknowledge your fellow passengers.

And that's it. A dozen seconds of eye contact a couple of times a week. Hardly the sort of thing a relationship is built on or anything else for that matter. Jonathan daydreams about asking him out, or asking for his number, but he doesn't quite have the guts to do it. After all, perhaps it's better to enjoy the view (and what a view it is - the man is shorter than Jonathan but solidly built and with a smile that could melt hearts like snow in July) than live with the awkwardness of sharing a train after being turned down.

Through accumulating hours of train travel he learns more about him: what he reads, his habit of doing crossword puzzles, the way he sometimes looks tired and stares out of the window doing nothing at all, and the fact that his ginger friend brings him tea one day as an apology for something. Jonathan privately amends his offer of coffee to one of tea. Or a drink. Or dinner. After all, if it's never going to happen, he might as well indulge. He imagines taking the man out for dinner, sitting with that intense brown gaze focused on him and only him, basking in the warmth of his smile, somehow being charming enough to get the man home and into his bed... His fantasy falters, lost when he realises he doesn't even know the man's name. The next day he feels guilty for thinking it and buries his head in his newspaper to avoid making eye contact.

The end of the year is looming and Jonathan can't quite believe how long he's been at his new job already, how many train rides he's shared with this man he doesn't know and still keeps thinking about. He's got no further than once exchanging two sentences on the topic of the train delay, because the ginger one was looking it up on his phone and Jonathan had no battery.

Just before Christmas, the man disappears for a couple of days. His friend has been getting the train less and less, but this is the first time the man himself is missing, and Jonathan is struck by the wrongness of it. He tells himself he's probably just on holiday, or maybe he's ill, or moved, left his job... On the third day Jonathan is half tempted to ask his friend, but he stops himself in time and gives himself a good shake when he realises just how much of a stalker it makes him sound.

On Friday the man is back, red nosed and coughing. He smiles at Jonathan though, and Jonanthan smiles back. He can't help himself. He hopes, even though it would ruin his very slim chances, that the man has someone looking after him.

Christmas arrives soon after, with all the festive cheer of the season. Office parties and meeting up with friends turning in a haze of good food into sprawling in front of box sets with the festive leftovers and the dregs of a box of Quality Street.

Jonathan was intending to be taking more time after the new year but on the 3rd he gets called in for an emergency meeting. Somewhat bitterly he realises it's not nearly as much of an emergency as it was made to sound. Halfway through the afternoon and with the problem fixed he decides he's done enough for a day that was meant to be a holiday and heads to the station. There aren't as many people commuting today, and at this time of day the station is deserted. The bitingly cold weather doesn't exactly encourage spontaneous travel either. He huddles into his coat as he walks to one of the far platforms to wait for his train.

There's only one other person waiting on the platform.

Him.

They smile.

"Hello," the man says, "you're on my train in the morning." Then he stops. "Sorry, that makes me sound like I'm stalking you. I just recognised you." 

"I did too. Didn't expect to see you here."

"I wasn't meant to be in today, just thought I'd pick up some work for marking."  He has a heavy bag slung across his body that looks as though it's full of papers. Marking what, Jonathan wonders. Another mystery. The man is wearing a red wool scarf tucked into the collar of his coat, and the colour and cold make his skin warm.

"I wasn't meant to be here either," Jonathan says. "Freezing, isn't it?" 

"Train won't be for a while apparently. Reduced service due to overrunning engineering works."

"I saw.  I was going to get coffee." Now or never, Jonathan thinks to himself.  If there's a moment to act this is it, when it's almost still Christmas and he's right there, already talking to you and wearing that warm red scarf...

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Jonathan is momentarily speechless, his invitation unspoken. "Oh, yes… that would be... I was just going to suggest it." 

The man beams. Jonathan still doesn't know his name, but that can be discovered later. If Christmas wishes (or New Year wishes) really worked then Jonathan would be making one. Please, he thinks, please let this one coffee be the start of something good.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion to yesterday’s fic, this one following William and his ill-advised fling with his boss. Written for fengirl88 who encouraged me with this fic and agreed that in a university AU setting, Arthur would absolutely be shagging his PA. It grew from there.

_Just before Christmas_

It is the departmental Christmas party tonight: an event consisting of hideous festive jumpers, themed pub quiz, excessive mince pie consumption and the enthusiastic but amateur departmental band providing music.  A traditional excuse for end of term overindulgence and unwise decisions. So perhaps it's understandable when William drinks a bit more than he means to and finds himself, more by accident than design, pushing Arthur against the wall in the corridor outside.  Hardly the most erotic setting but Arthur's lips are warm beneath his own and he tastes of mulled wine and smells of familiar aftershave. He has his hands tucked into the back pockets of William's jeans, pulling him closer, and what can William do except go with it, snogging like teenagers while the band make a creditable effort at 'All I want for Christmas is you'.

Clichéd. Stupid. Risky. He can tell himself all those things a hundred times over, but they carry little weight when he can slide a hand under Arthur's jumper and tangle the other in his hair. He can feel Arthur's cock pressing against him and he wants him, wants to drag him back to the office and end the evening with the two of them fucking on Arthur's desk.

He should have given in to the impulse sooner. They wait just a minute too long.

There's a noise behind them.  A scarlet faced PhD student mumbling 'sorry' and making a dash for the open doorway.

No chance she could have mistaken what they were doing, and no chance it'll stay a secret for long. Of all the stupid, stupid things to do. They look at one another.  The mood is gone, as effectively as if they'd been doused in cold water. It feels more sordid now, to be caught like this in a dingy corridor between the mug shots of departmental staff and the notice board with its layers of adverts for bygone seminars.

"I suppose we'd better talk," Arthur says eventually, and the two of them pull away from one another.

On the walk to Arthur's office, William wonders if perhaps he should have known it would end up like this.

 

_Two months earlier_

The corridors of the department have long since gone dark. Even the most dedicated of the researchers gone home in search of bed. In Arthur's office it's just the two of them, working. Statistics and students blurring together.

"It's late," Arthur says eventually, "we can finish the last bit in the morning."

It was supposed to be done tonight, but deans have some flexibility in deadlines and nobody is going to nag Arthur Wellesley for being a few hours late.

"I don't mind staying," William says, even though his eyes are blurry with tiredness, making him blink to clear them.

"I know, but you're tired and I'm tired, and we've done most of it. You ought to get home."

Arthur stretches, and William watches.

"I don't have to go. Not yet. I mean," William swallows, "I don't want to go home yet."

The words linger on the air. Months of looking but not touching, of wanting but not saying: the weight of it sits heavy between them.

"William..."

William stretches out one hand and covers Arthur's where it rests on the desk. Arthur doesn't move away.

 

_The morning after_

William considers the possibility of either staying in bed forever or trying to drown his sorrows under the shower and never coming out again. How can he go in, knowing what they did last night, and knowing he has to pretend it never happened at all?  He contemplates ringing Arthur, making up some excuse not to go to work, just until he feels like he can cope with being there again. Then he imagines Arthur's voice on the phone, calling him William...

_Arthur, mid fuck, bent over him on the desk, arms braced on either side of him. William. Oh God William._

He decides the shower is the lesser of the two evils. It’s either going to clear his mind or, in the worst case, he can just stay there until he drowns.  Hot water, almost too hot to stand: he lets it run over his head, gasps in the steamy air.  He got what he wanted, more than he expected, and now he has no idea what to do. He turns his face up to let the water run over it, holding his breath.

_He's breathing fast like he's run a marathon, elated and disbelieving. They are really doing this, and God he just wants to come. Arthur looking up at him, his mouth on William's cock, sucking him with such torturous patience._

He's touching himself before he thinks about it, resting his head against the wall of the shower and stroking his cock, hoping that maybe this will stop him thinking, make the rest of the day bearable.

_Arthur's hand on him, firm grip taking him inexorably over the edge while William can only scrabble for purchase on the desk and take it, blissed out and overwhelmed. The best fuck he’s had in a while._

He comes hard, remembering, startled when his breathing slows to find that the water is already cooling. He washes in a rush, trying to wash away last night. Not that he can remove all the evidence: the bruise on his neck is going to take some hiding.  He'll be wearing a high necked jumper all week.

He's slow at getting ready, dozy with tiredness and the desire not to go in. He didn't get home until after two and now he has to get the later train and catch the bus from the station. His bike is still at work, a guilty testament to Arthur giving him a lift home last night. He texts Colley an apology for not being there at the station this morning. 

He thinks when he arrives, late and flustered, that everyone must know. Know what he did, only last night, only on the other side of that door.

_Naked on Arthur's desk, being admired, touching himself so Arthur can watch.  Knowing he'll be embarrassed later but unable to stop himself._

But somehow… nobody does. They all just say hello, joining in with grumbles about buses and the weather, the printer being jammed again.  He is apparently the only one who has ever read the instructions on how to un-jam it. 

"Arthur said you were working late last night; we didn't expect you in for a bit anyway."

"No," Arthur says from the doorway, "you didn't have to rush in."

William feels his face heat. He can't look at Arthur and not remember.

_This is a one time thing, isn't it? Just tonight. I won't mention it in the morning._

"When you've got a minute, I wanted to ask you about the stats for section 3." 

Going into Arthur’s office is like walking into the lion’s den. Last night. Only a few hours ago really. He half hopes this really is about the stats, half hopes it isn't.

Arthur shuts the office door behind them. Pushes William against it. Kisses him good morning.

Maybe not just a one time thing after all.

 

 

_Five weeks before the party_

"I know you've both been working late on this." 

As soon as the words are spoken, Arthur finds his eyes drawn to William. Working late indeed. William is taking minutes more studiously than is strictly necessary, face flushed. He looks up briefly, meets Arthur's eyes and then looks away sharply.  Arthur lets his hand drift over the smooth surface of his desk.  The thought of 'working late' again is a far more appealing thought than anything actually related to work and this meeting is already too long. William is watching the progress of his hand across the desk. Arthur wonders what he's remembering, what he wants.

The rest of the meeting passes in a state of anticipation.

Afterwards William is wound tight with waiting.  Arthur pins him against the wall and sucks bruises onto the pale skin of his neck while William bucks hard beneath him, grinding their cocks together. It's so tempting to repeat the usual pattern, to end up on the floor together or bent over the desk, making more memories to enjoy in dull meetings. Still, Arthur has plans for tonight.

"Let me take you home," he says, "do this in a bed for a change."

It's a risk, or close enough to feel like one. Going home is so much more deliberate, so much harder to write off as accidental (just a one time thing that happened more than once). 

William looks at him with all the disbelief of a man who is pinned to a wall, disheveled and aroused and being told to wait. Arthur lets him think.

"Ok," he says, "on one condition."

"What?"

"You let me fuck you when we get there."

It's not what Arthur expected, but once the words are spoken the desire is there. William shifts, just enough so that he is indisputably the one doing the kissing now.  He nips at Arthur's lip, slides a hand around to grope his arse in a way that is pleasingly possessive.

The journey home is a blur of anticipation and distracted groping, leading to a frantic stripping off of clothes between the front door and the bedroom. 

Arthur isn’t prepared to say he underestimated William but he is… pleasantly surprised.  He’d made the mistake of thinking that William, so enthusiastic in being fucked, might not be quite so enthused about taking control.  He couldn’t be more wrong.  William, perhaps feeling he has something to prove or the favour to return (or maybe he’s just this good), is doing his level best to make Arthur completely lose his fucking mind.  He is embarrassingly aware that’s he’s rambling nonsense.  It’s been a long time since he was the one on his back with another man leaning over him.  Fortunately William seems to appreciate the nonsense, even be encouraged by it, fucking him hard and fast.  Every time Arthur thinks he knows William, there something new to find.  It makes him a hard habit to break, and as he watches William finally losing some of his control, he wonders why he’d ever want to. 

 

Afterwards Arthur takes his time in the bathroom, under the pretense of cleaning up. He's half expecting that when he gets back to the bedroom he'll find William dressed and ready to go and when he opens the bathroom door to silence he wonders if William has already gone.

The bedroom proves otherwise, and he tries hard to keep the surprise off his face. William is sprawled on his front: going nowhere, phone in hand, although he drops the phone carelessly over the side of the bed when Arthur walks in. He rolls over and smiles.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Arthur sits on the side of the bed, admiring the view. William stretches with a knowing smile on his face but then tugs Arthur down beside him. He curls up, pulling the duvet with him. Arthur wasn’t quite expecting this level of unashamed snuggling either. William, it seems, is very much a fan of slow and lazy post-sex kisses when he gets the chance. 

“Mmm,” William says, draping himself over Arthur, “I’m hungry but too comfortable to get up.” 

It doesn’t seem as though he’s planning to leave any time soon then.  Arthur rolls him over. 

 

The morning after, William wakes up in an unusually warm bed. The duvet is a thicker one than he has and there is still a lingering heat beneath the covers that comes from sharing a bed.  There’s a shower running.  Memories of last night drift back: lying in bed until hunger called for ordering takeaway, wandering Arthur’s house in t-shirt and boxers while waiting, peering at his collection of books and music in that way you do in a house you’ve never visited before, the second round of sex leading to falling asleep together and then waking up now. 

He’s strangely un-shocked by realizing where he is this morning.  The first morning after he’d barely been able to face the day but this is… surprisingly ok.  In fact, he drifts back to sleep shortly afterwards, lulled by the warmth. 

The next time he wakes up, it is to Arthur shaking him by the shoulder and shoving a mug of coffee under his nose.  Although the most urgent thing really ought to be getting ready, he lingers over the fact that Arthur knows how he takes his coffee until he has a choice between the lingering and being horrifically late for work. 

 

_One week before the party_

It's becoming a habit. William is waking up in Arthur's bed again, with Arthur's arm slung over him. The third time this week, if you don't count Saturday, when William had woken up there and then forgotten to leave until the afternoon. He's starting to keep a toothbrush and a change of clothes in his bag just in case. Definitely a habit. 

Arthur kisses the back of his neck and mumbles about the shower. William reaches for his phone to text Colley and let him know not to wait because he won’t be getting the train this morning.  He lies there for a moment, basking. 

Arthur reappears, toweling his hair dry, otherwise naked.  It hadn’t taken many mornings of trying to get ready in a hurry to stop caring about how they were dressed, or undressed.  "Bathroom's yours," he says. He isn't particularly talkative in the mornings but that's fine with William. Mornings aren’t his favourite time of day either. 

It's not until he's in the shower, helping himself to Arthur's shampoo, that he thinks again about last night. It had been the charity Christmas concert for his choir, the one he and Colley both sing with, and as usual half the department had turned up in support.  He’d been soaring on the post-concert high afterwards, not even thought about it when Arthur offered him a lift, and then dinner.  Dinner at his house, with William singing bits of the songs from the concert, and a bottle of wine between them, nowhere near enough to be drunk on but he hadn’t needed it.  It’s only now, in the morning, that he realises this was the first time they’ve had dinner before sex.  There had still been sex: he’s hardly a saint, and he’d been (to use his aunt’s phrase) all over Arthur like a rash before the food was half gone, but as he stands under the water he wonders if it means something, if a line has been crossed.  It’s a thought he squashes fairly quickly, but it makes him a bit giddy, a bit reckless, a bit inclined to go pouncing on Arthur at the Christmas party when he really, really shouldn’t have. 

 

_After_

"I suppose we'd better talk."

In his office, Arthur stands behind his desk. Positioned, whether consciously or unconsciously, in a way that gives him the power over what is said. William is conscious of it, conscious that this is now almost indistinguishable from the sort of meeting he might have if he'd done something wrong at work. Talking to his boss again, not Arthur. Not the Arthur who asked to be fucked and made him tea and all the other things that are about to be taken away. He's not stupid. He knows where this is going.

"I think this has to stop, don't you?" Arthur sounds so reasonable, and so calm.

"Yes, I suppose it does." William tries to put a brave face on it. To appear as calm as Arthur. There's never any good in ranting and raving with Arthur. "It was fun while it lasted, but it's done now."

"Well then."

They stand in silence a moment.

"I'm going to head home, if that's alright," William says.

"Of course."

"Goodnight then."

"Goodnight, William."

William goes home in a daze, cycling half blind to the station. A driver yells at him but there’s no obvious disaster so he thinks whatever it was can't have been that bad. The train is quiet enough. He stares out at the darkness, watching his own blurred reflection and feeling like a fool.

At home he flops on the sofa. Turns the TV on to rubbish. Wonders what the hell he's doing with his life. Unable to persuade himself to get up or go to bed he stays on the sofa to the small hours, when the heating is off and it’s cold and miserable, wondering why it feels so much like he's just broken up with someone when there was nothing to break up from.

In the morning he calls in sick. Fuck professionalism. Enough people will do the same today after the party and he just can't face it. He doesn't check his emails.

The clothes in his bag smell of Arthur's house, so he shoves them in the washing machine. He cleans things, irons, watches more god awful TV, and plays music loud enough that he can't hear himself think.

Somehow he survives Christmas and the family obligations that go with it. He even manages New Year with friends, feeling a bit more human by then, but he's mostly faking it, blundering through. He still hasn't looked at his emails, even though he isn't sure if he's dreading receiving an email or finding none.

Somehow though, it needs fixing.

He's missing Arthur. Missing waking up in his bed, missing his company, missing the way he feels when they're together.  He tries not to, irritated with himself for caring about it.

On New Year’s day, hungover and replaying that conversation with Arthur in his head again, he feels a sudden stab of irritation for having given up so easily. He'd just walked, hadn't he? Not talked about it, not discussed it, not fought for it. Whatever it was, now it feels worth fighting for. 

He fetches his phone from the coffee table.  He has Arthur’s number for work reasons, although he’s rarely had to use it.  Certainly he’s never used it for anything outside of work.  He texts, asking if they can meet up, just to talk before they go back to work. 

Waiting for a reply is an exercise in patience and distraction.  He picks at Christmas cake, discards it and goes hunting fruitlessly in the kitchen for something better.  Perhaps Arthur hasn’t even read it yet, or he’s thinking what to say. 

The message, when it arrives, offers only agreement and a suggestion of a pub as a place to meet.  There isn’t much else to go on, however much he stares at it.  He shrugs.  At least it’s a response, and Arthur is willing to talk. 

 

The pub isn’t far from the department.  They had a Christmas lunch there a couple of years ago, but otherwise it’s neutral territory for both of them.  Arthur is there already, sitting at the back with pint in hand.  He isn’t dressed for work, and William rather likes it.  It’s usually only if Arthur’s been travelling somewhere, to a conference or a partner institution overseas, that William sees him in t-shirts and jeans, and soft jumpers that looks like they’ve seen better days. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I get you something?” Arthur asks him, half rising. 

“No, I’ll go in a minute.” He can’t bear to put off the conversation any longer, but he has no idea how to begin. 

“I meant to apologise,” Arthur says into the silence, “the day after, but then you weren’t at work.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have let it go like that.  I was… embarrassed.  Worried about you, about what people would say.” 

“Oh.” 

“I missed you.”  Arthur aims for nonchalance and misses by a mile.  With a sudden and overwhelming relief, William realises that against the odds, it’s all going to be ok. 

“Hey,” he says with a smile, “I missed you too.” 

He waits for Arthur to look at him, properly look at him, and then leans forward for a kiss.  Quite a chaste kiss by their standards, but they are in public after all. 

“I think maybe I’ll get that drink now,” William says, “and then we can talk.” 

Talk they do, as the afternoon wends its way towards evening and the crowd in the pub grows.  About what they want, about who they have to tell (and how mortifying it’s likely to be). 

“I mean,” William says, half wondering at what point he ended up comfortably pressed against Arthur on the bench seat, “it’s hardly as though we’re the first.  John Segundus _married_ his post doc, not two years after he poached him from Norrell.” 

“Well that’s true,” Arthur says, with his hand tucked firmly around the curve of William’s arse, “but are you sure you won’t mind?  You know what people will say.” 

“They’ll be saying it anyway, after the party.  I might as well get some benefit, and besides, you won’t be my boss forever.”  It’s a pleasing thought.  Arthur was offered five years in the post to start with and he’s done three and a half already. 

“Fuck,” William says, with the clarity that a few pints of cider bring, “you know, I think I might have been hoping for this for a really long time.” 

Arthur laughs, a warm and comfortable sound against his ear.  “I think the feeling might have been mutual.  And what do you suggest we do now?” 

William turns to look at him, studying the familiar face that now means more to him than it did.  “Dinner,” he says, “since we missed out on the dating part before and the food’s not bad here.  Dinner and then…”

“And then?”  There’s heat in the question: a very blatant invitation, and one William doesn’t want to resist. 

“And then,” he whispers into Arthur’s ear, “I’m going to take you home, pin you to the bed and fuck you so hard you won’t see straight.”  He trails a hand up the inside of Arthur’s thigh for good measure. 

Arthur gives a sharp intake of breath.  “Have I mentioned,” he says, “that I am extremely lucky?  Dinner it is.” 


	10. A true Scotsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ungentlemanly Grant in a kilt. This one is for Fen, who knows why!

“I look ridiculous,” Grant says as he hears the door open behind him. 

“No you don’t, darling.” 

Bell puts a hand on his shoulder to turn him away from the mirror.  She admires him, then runs her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, smoothing the lapels of his jacket.  It’s a habit of hers, before he or Jonathan go out.  She smiles. 

“I did think you knew better than to make a bet with William though.” 

“Well…” he shrugs.  Normally he would know better, but he’s too soft hearted when William had confessed his boredom with events like these and it seemed safer at the time to let him have some entertainment rather than leave him to get restless at a dance where he won’t be dancing. 

“I know,” Bell says, “but I still didn’t think you’d do it.  I can only imagine what Jonathan will say, seeing you dressed up like this.” 

“I shall have to hope he doesn’t do himself an injury laughing.”  Grant surveys his reflection gloomily.  He’d thought perhaps the kilt would no longer fit him.  It’s been years since he wore it last: probably for his brother’s wedding before the war. 

“You really don’t see it do you?”

“See what?”

“How extremely handsome you look.” 

Grant makes a dismissive noise.  In his opinion, Bell is the one who looks attractive this evening. 

“Are you nearly ready?” she asks him. 

“Almost,” he says, “just one thing left.”  He hands her the pin for his kilt and she kneels in a rustle of silk to fasten it in place. 

“Stand fast,” she says, running her thumb over the badge on the pin. 

“Clan motto,” he explains.  He’s never really been one for family pride, never felt much attachment to the Grant clan as a whole, but his father did, and his mother bought him the pin because of it. 

“It suits you, you know.  You always have been steadfast.  Someone to be relied on.”  She smiles up at him, curling one hand around the back of his bare knee, and he feels rather more fondness for the motto than he usually does.  “Jonathan and I are lucky to have you.” 

“No,” he says, holding out a hand to pull her to her feet, “I’m the lucky one.  Now, shall we get this over?” 

He holds out his arm and the two of them walk down together. 

 

Sir Walter and Emma have been holding annual house parties for New Year’s Eve since the war ended.  A way for Sir Walter to impress the right people, and a way for Emma to reunite with her friends from the SOE days.  When Grant and Arabella enter the room where pre-dinner drinks are being served, a small crowd has already gathered, filling the room with the hum of conversation.  Jonathan still hasn’t arrived it seems, but William is there.  His pleased whoop at the sight of Grant draws attention and Grant braces himself for the inevitable. 

“I can’t believe you really wore that!”  William is as smartly dressed as the occasion requires: his suit well cut, his cane a rather finer version than the one he uses every day, and even his hair is slicked down, but still there is an air about him that suggests it is only a temporary suppression of his usual exuberance. 

“A bet with William?” Arthur says drily, “how very unwise of you Grant.”  He offers a hand to shake.    

“I know, and I live to regret it, as you see.” 

“You know,” William says with his head on one side and a tone of disappointment, “it really isn’t that bad.  I thought you’d look far worse from what I remembered.” 

Arabella laughs and, behind him, Grant can hear Emma join in. 

“Major Grant,” she greets him, “how wonderful to see you again.”  She speaks with an English accent so refined you would never guess she could be fluent in any other language, but she kisses both his cheeks in the French style.  She is dressed in the very height of fashion (something he is only aware of because of Bell), and her jewellery sparkles.  Sir Walter likes to buy her extravagant things and she lets him indulge her at this time of year.

“Emma,” he says, “how was your Christmas?” 

“Good thank you.  Let me get you a drink.  Would whiskey be most appropriate for your style of dress?” 

“Major Grant!  And Mrs Strange, welcome.”  Sir Walter appears as though drawn to his wife’s company, shaking hands all round.  “Wellesley, I’m very glad to see you.  Wanted to have a word about that meeting on Friday.  Very worrying business, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Perhaps tomorrow?”  Emma lays restraining a hand on Sir Walter’s arm.  “Tonight isn’t a night for business.” 

“Of course my dear, tomorrow then Wellesley?  I suppose it will keep for another day.”  He gazes fondly at Emma and she returns it.  Arthur makes the appropriate polite noises about discussing things another time.  Grant wonders what the meeting was about: certainly nothing he was included in, so it must be a matter for the upper echelons of the Secret Intelligence Service. 

He’s distracted from speculation by the unmistakable sound of Jonathan’s voice in the hall.  Jonathan has been delayed in London today, leaving Grant and Arabella to drive up together in time to help Emma with preparations.  However much the two of them had made the most of the time alone together, there’s always a joy that comes from them all being there and at the sound of the familiar voice, Grant feels his spirits lift. 

“Jonathan’s here,” Bell says, turning towards the same sound. 

“Merlin!” Arthur greets him first, toasting him with his glass as Jonathan appears in the room.  “How are you?  Neglecting your wife again, I see.” 

“Yes, yes, I was caught in London.  Bell, darling, I’m sorry to be so late.  I really thought I’d be away far earlier but Norrell… good God.”  Jonathan pauses, mouth slightly open, and stares at Grant. 

“Jonathan!” Bell says in a warning tone. 

“You may blame William,” Grant says ruefully. 

“No,” William says, “you may blame Grant’s skills at billiards.  It was a perfectly reasonable bet.” 

“And what, may I ask, were the stakes if you had lost?” Arthur asks him.  William whispers in his ear.  Arthur raises one eyebrow. 

“Perhaps,” he says, “it was a good thing you lost, Grant.” 

Jonathan, apparently speechless, opens his mouth and then closes it again.  It is fortunate that the crowd around them are too busy with drinks and other conversations to notice. 

“Colley,” he says at last, “I didn’t… I didn’t know you even _owned_ ….” 

“Didn’t I tell you what his reaction would be?” Bell says, laughing.  “Jonathan, really, perhaps you’d better have a drink.  And find one for us while you’re at it.” 

Jonathan departs obediently for the table where drinks are being served.  Grant follows him. 

“I think Bell has been waiting all day for you to arrive and see me like this.” 

“I’m sure she knew exactly what effect seeing you would have.  You look…” Jonathan stops in wordless appreciation. 

“Ridiculous,” Grant offers as a suggestion. 

“Not ridiculous at all, but I do have to know,” Jonathan leans closer, excusable in the noise of the crowd, and says for Grant’s ears only, “whether you are a true Scotsman or not.” 

His eyes flick meaningfully downwards. 

“That,” Grant says equally quietly, “is for me to know and for you to find out.  Later.”

The frustrated noise Jonathan makes is almost worth it. 

 

When the two of them return with drinks, they find that the group has grown.  Laura is there, with her husband, Andrew.  She is in the middle of asking Arthur about his boys from the end of the conversation that Grant catches. 

“And he’s enjoying school?”

“Yes, which is more than I could have said at his age.  And Artie’s rather taken with photography at the moment, which I can thank William for.” 

“I only suggested the camera.  You bought it.”  William grins at him, unrepentant. 

“I understand Bell is going to be setting him up with a dark room in the new year,” Jonathan says, passing drinks.   

“So I fear,” Arthur says with mock gloom, “apparently the bathroom will be out of bounds whenever he wants to develop film.” 

Laura, standing at his side, smiles and then glances at Colley.  Her smile grows wider. 

“Colley Grant whatever are you wearing?” she says, covering her mouth as she laughs.  “I haven’t seen you dressed like that since you were, what, fifteen?” 

“Oh not you too!”  Grant gives an exaggerated groan of dismay and everyone laughs. 

Andrew shakes Grant’s hand warmly.  He was in the RAF like William during the war, now gone back to his father’s farm.  A very straightforward but rather shy man, he always seems faintly uncomfortable with formal parties, but Grant appreciates his company.  Grant asks after their son, staying with his grandparents for the night, and William joins in, wanting to see the latest photograph of his godson.  In Grant’s mind, it’s a far better topic of conversation than what he’s wearing. 

 

Dinner follows: an extravagant meal as always.  Grant finds himself opposite John Segundus, who is always pleasant company: his natural reserve broken long ago in their work together on Germany.  He is head of his department at Starecross now, and full of school news and anecdotes about his attempts at managing the school play.  He is also taking time over the Christmas holidays to finish various publications with Childermass, which he discusses at length and then apologises for when he catches himself at it.  He seems happy and more confident in himself despite the apologies.  The worried frown he used to have during the war is almost gone now, although his hair is rather more grey.  He quietly excuses himself when Emma declares the meal over and tries to cajole Sir Walter into dancing with her.  Grant expects he will retreat to the library with Childermass until all thoughts of dancing are over.  

As the dancing begins, Grant finds himself an unexpectedly more popular dance partner than he was anticipating.  Bell laughs at him when he comments on it, and blames the kilt entirely. 

“Either you look handsome in it, or they are hoping it might fly upwards and answer the question everyone wants to know,” Jonathan tells him, toasting him with his glass and giving him a smile that shouldn’t be allowed in public.  Grant borrows William’s cane to deliver a sharp smack to Jonathan’s ankle. 

Whatever the reason, he finds himself dancing: with Emma and Bell, with Laura and other friends and a few women introduced to him to beg a dance.  He dances until he’s hot and tired and then retreats to the sofa where William and Arthur have settled themselves.  William offers him a glass, which he takes gratefully. 

“Thought you’d never get away,” he says and Grant grimaces. 

“It really is your fault William.” 

“Grant!” Sir Walter calls out, one arm around Emma, “I can’t dance another step.  Take my place will you?” 

Grant downs his drink and throws himself back into the fray. 

 

The dancing goes on until almost midnight, with a break for supper in the late evening.  Out of habit, the Ungentlemanly magicians congregate together.  Although William professes to be perfectly happy watching the dancing, he is not a natural wallflower and gathers people around him, doing good trade in scurrilous gossip and who is doing what with whom (something that Arthur, at least, finds useful when it relates to the great and good that Sir Walter has invited for political reasons). 

As midnight approaches Arabella and Emma discretely disappear and the doors of the conservatory are thrown open so that the guests can stream out onto the terrace.  As they count down to midnight, kisses and good wishes are exchanged.  Grant cannot kiss Jonathan, but in the darkness he takes Jonathan’s hand and squeezes it tightly. 

The fireworks at midnight are good, as usual with Sir Walter's parties, but Grant finds himself distracted by watching the crowd. Jonathan takes an almost scientific interest in the explosions. Magic can create fireworks, but he appreciates the non-magical skill that goes into the ordinary kind and can, if asked, list all the components used to produce the different colours. William appears to just enjoy them for the display they are but he stays close to Arthur. Arthur is always somewhat tight-lipped about the event. Grant suspects that he hates fireworks, bad memories stirred up by the repetitive bangs that can sound too much like gunfire or shelling. Grant himself can only appreciate them so long as he stays focused on the lights, on the beauty of them, and the company he is with. Otherwise it is all too easy to find himself catapulted backwards to places he'd rather not revisit. It helps that Arabella is out there in the darkened grounds with Emma, changed into worn trousers and jumpers, setting light to fuses as they once did in France. This is allied fire, he reminds himself. Bell had spent a very enjoyable afternoon setting everything up with Emma and her joy makes him better able to appreciate what they have done. After all, he thinks, if you want a good display, who better to ask than two ex-SOE agents?

 

When the fireworks have ended, the last sparks fading and the haze of smoke drifting towards them on the night air, the dancing resumes indoors.  Within an hour or two however, the majority of the guests have begun to think of home.  The night is a cold one after all, and the new year safely ushered in.  Coats are called for and cars brought round.  Emma has reappeared, immaculately dressed again but her hair smelling of gunpowder.  “Beautiful,” Sir Walter says to her, between farewells to departing guests, “beautiful as always.” 

Grant does not leave.  Aside from the fact that they have been invited to spend the night, he knows that the celebrations are not yet done for them yet.  Instead he makes his way to the sitting room that has been closed until now: a comfortable room that is Emma’s domain, made for relaxing in rather than entertaining grand guests.  A gramophone is playing in the corner, low enough to let people talk.  Laura is curled up next to William on the sofa, her shoes off, reminiscing. 

“Do you remember that New Year, when your aunt left the drinks cabinet open and we tried all the drinks we could, just to see what they were like?”

“Oh God, don’t remind me!”  William shudders theatrically.  His jacket is off now and his tie undone: he looks much more like his usual self.  “Colley!  Come and join us.  We were remembering our past misdeeds.” 

“I’m shocked,” Arthur says, “that you have any misdeeds to confess to.”  He smiles at William and hands him a glass. 

“They were both terrible,” Colley says, “I was the only sensible one.”

“Now that I know to be untrue,” says Andrew.  “Laura has been telling me the most interesting things about when you learnt to dance.” 

“William, I assume that’s your fault.”  Colley stretches himself out on the sofa, then remembers the kilt and moves so it is still covering his knees and unlikely to flaunt any parts of himself he’d rather not expose to the world.  “Do you remember that Christmas we spent in the bomb shelter?”

“With William endlessly bemoaning what the bastards were doing to his aircraft?  How could I forget?”  Arthur grins.  “Never has the festive season been celebrated with so much cursing.” 

“And whiskey.  We had to ply him with it to get him to shut up,” Colley says to Andrew in confiding tones. 

“I’m afraid my sympathy is all with William.” 

“Thank you!”  William lifts his glass in Andrew’s direction, one pilot to another. 

“What did I miss?”  Bell reappears, also changed back into evening clothes and with no hint of how she has spent part of her evening.  She links her fingers with Grant’s outstretched hand and settles beside him.  With so few people in the room they can be openly affectionate now. 

“We were talking of William’s misdeeds.” 

“So long as it’s not my misdeeds, I’m happy,” Jonathan says, folding himself to sit on the floor at their feet.  He tips his head back to look up at them both. 

“And where have you been?” Bell asks him, tugging at a strand of his hair.

“With Segundus.  Sir Walter has some interesting books in his library and we’ve arranged to meet next week.  He’s going back to Starecross tomorrow, or rather today, so he and Childermass are leaving early.” 

“Not exactly early,” says Andrew, looking at his watch.  Parties aside, he is usually early to bed and early to rise out of habit. 

“Early for us,” Grant says, “are our hosts still saying farewells?” 

They are, but not for long, and soon Emma is there, taking over the gramophone.  She has discarded her shoes somewhere and her hair is loose.  She looks much more like the woman Grant remembers working with in France. 

Toasts are drunk: to England, to magic, to the ungentlemanly magicians.  Despite the late hour, the music and drinks keep people going.  Emma and Bell improvise a dance together, giggling, and call Laura over to join them. 

“Shall we leave it to the ladies?” Jonathan asks him, “or do you think you can stand one more dance?” 

Grant thinks that for the pleasure of dancing with Jonathan, he might just manage it, despite his aching feet.  They don’t try for anything particularly energetic, but Jonathan leads him around the room in a slow circuit.  Leaning against him is comfortingly familiar, and it feels good to dance so openly.  Close to, Jonathan looks rather tired.  He’s been working hard recently, and after a while he passes Grant to Bell and goes in search of coffee to keep himself awake.  Drinking it, Jonathan watches the two of them together, and the expression on his face reminds Grant of that very first evening between the three of them, when they’d taken him dancing. 

In time, Arthur comes to ask Bell to dance and Grant lets him.  Dancing is something Arthur enjoys but rarely indulges in so it seems only fair to let him have a chance.  Grant goes to take Arthur’s seat beside William, who is watching the other couples.

“They look happy,” William says as Grant sits.  He gestures at Laura and Andrew, who are dancing together, looking very much in love.  

“Yes.” 

“They’ll have another kid in the summer.  Laura told me tonight.  She always did want a big family.”  William sighs and leans his head on Grant’s shoulder, the way he used to when they were boys. 

“You don’t mind though, do you?” Grant tries to look at William but he’s sitting too close.  He has always seemed so unfazed by Laura and Andrew but now Grant wonders if he should have questioned it. 

“What?”  William sounds reassuringly surprised.  “Of course I don’t _mind_.  You know that, don’t you?”  He pulls away and looks searchingly at Grant. 

“Well that’s what I always thought.  I was just… asking.  You sounded sad.” 

“Did I?  Well, that’s not the two of them.  Not them being happy at least.  I’m happy: you know I am.  I just envy them this.  Dancing together.” 

Grant finds William’s hand and squeezes it briefly.  William squeezes back.  He can’t have danced, Grant realises, since the new year of 1943, which seems a long time ago now. 

“Honestly, Colley, I’m just getting morbid.  Enough to drink for me tonight.”  William lounges back in his seat again, apparently giving up on the train of thought and Grant finds himself settling next to him.  Laura and Andrew are still dancing together, his hand on the small of her back.  Jonathan and Emma are dancing too, apparently while arguing vehemently about something.  Sir Walter is picking through records with Stephen and his wife. 

Arthur, dancing with Bell, looks over at Grant with a frown on his face.  He mutters something in Bell’s ear and walks over to them. 

"Come and dance with me," he says, holding out his hands to William.

"Arthur..."

“William?”

William gives a one shouldered shrug.  “I can’t.” 

"There's nobody here,” Arthur says. 

Not true, but Grant knows what Arthur means. Nobody here who'd object to the two of them dancing, nobody here to stare if William is awkward on his feet. He watches the two of them having their unspoken conversation out of the corner of his eye and tries to look as if his attention is focused elsewhere.

"Do you mind?" William asks him a moment later.

"Of course not, go."

Arthur gives an exasperated sigh and pulls William to his feet. To a less observant watcher, perhaps there's nothing to see at all, but Grant can see the way Arthur is there, his hand at William's elbow in case he should stumble. Nothing said, no fuss made, just the two of them leaning on each other, as easy as breathing.  They sway together gently, not really dancing, but turning slowly with the music. William leans against Arthur, dropping his head to Arthur's shoulder. His eyes are closed. Arthur's arms encircle him, and Grant thinks that perhaps for the two of them, there really is nobody here.

He watches them for a while, finding secondhand happiness in the two of them together, and then Jonathan drops onto the sofa to sprawl, warm and tired, beside him.  Bell curls into his other side.  No need to go dancing: he has the people he loves right here.  It’s late, and he could almost drift off to sleep if he wanted. 

 

In the small hours, the three of them finally wend their way to bed.  It’s not quite dawn, although it would be if it were any later in the year, and the half light shows through the windows of the corridor.  The birds are beginning to sing and Grant feels light and careless despite how tired he is.  Jonathan, after his long day, long drive and a few too many glasses of whiskey, is a trifle drunk.  Arabella’s hair is coming unpinned after the hasty change of outfit earlier, falling down her back.  She carries her shoes in one hand, holding Jonathan’s jacket around her with the other. 

The room is their usual one.  Emma arranged it: one with a large double bed and a dressing room next door that is supposed to be Grant’s.  Plenty of room in the bed for three.  He assumes that Bell told her and it’s the sort of secret Emma would like to be in on. 

Jonathan rambles as he unfastens his waistcoat and trousers, sprawling on the bed in shirt and underwear while Grant unzips the back of Bell’s dress.  He kisses her neck, where faded perfume is giving way to the warm scent of her skin.  It reminds him of earlier, of the afternoon when they had been intending to nap and spent a long and lazy time together doing anything but. 

“You two are exceeding… are exceed… very lovely.  Both of you.” Jonathan observes from the bed, half asleep and slightly slurred. 

“Thank you darling.”  Bell perches beside him and unbuttons his shirt.  “Sit up and take this off.” 

“I had plans, you know,” he says, “since I saw Colley in the kilt.  I wanted to unfasten it.  Or just lift it up.  On my knees.” 

The thought of it makes Grant groan, even though he’s too damn tired to do anything about it now. 

“Or maybe,” Jonathan tells Bell, who is lying beside him and stroking his tangled curls, “I wanted to sit him down, and find out if he was a true Scotsman, and then…”

“And then?” Grant asks, flopping down on Jonathan’s other side. 

Jonathan waves one hand tiredly.  “Things.”

Bell and Grant exchange amused looks.  Bell kisses Jonathan’s forehead.  “Go to sleep darling, there will be time for _things_ in the morning.” 

“But I missed you this afternoon.” 

“We’ll make it up to you,” Grant promises. 

“Promise?”

“Promise, darling.”  Bell lies back against the pillow and closes her eyes.  “I’m so tired,” she says, yawning. 

“Sleep well,” Grant says, preparing himself to get up again and undress for the night, the only one of them still in his clothes. 

“Wait,” Jonathan mumbles, rolling over.  “I have to know.  Even if you tell me, it’s not the same as knowing.” 

“Knowing what?” 

“This.”  Jonathan runs a hand up Grant’s thigh, under the kilt.  “Aha,” he says sleepily, his face pressed into Grant’s shoulder, “I knew it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Andrew:  
> When William was trying to arrange his divorce from Laura, the quickest way to do that was to arrange a divorce on the grounds of infidelity. And the gentlemanly thing would be for the man to be the one caught being unfaithful. So William must find a girl to have an ‘affair’ with, to be caught, so he can prove it and Laura can divorce him. Being stubborn, he tries to arrange this himself, and calls a friend and fellow pilot who a) had a sister who was divorced the same way and b) knew William has sleeping with his navigator and so isn’t going to be too shocked by the divorce or why he’s doing it. He calls Andrew, Andrew agrees to help but wants to meet William’s wife and be sure she’s ok with this before he goes about finding William the sort of girl who’d be happy to get mixed up in divorce proceedings. What William forgot was that Andrew’s father had a farm. After twenty minutes of awkward small talk and approximately three hours of Andrew and Laura discussing the relative merits of different breeds of cow and completely ignoring him, William finally snaps, rings Arthur and begs him to help because he has to divorce Laura as soon as possible, lest he ruin her life by stopping her pursuing this potential relationship with a man who’s as obsessed with crop rotation and milk yields as she is. Arthur obliges, and that is why Andrew and Laura are married, and credit William for introducing them.


	11. Two ways to mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the modern AU in chapter 9. Written for the fan flashworks prompt 'Mending'

"Can't it just be mended?" William asks, clinging to his last hope. 

The boiler repair man sucks air between his teeth in a way that is not reassuring in the slightest. "Afraid not, mate. They just don't make the parts for this type of boiler now. I'll let the landlord know, get him a quote to replace it. Shouldn't take more than a couple of days." He smiles sympathetically as he leaves. 

The flat is freezing already. William had spent last night in a huddle beneath the blankets, determined to stick it out despite Arthur's offer of a warm bed. The relationship is still supposed to be low key, at least until William starts his new job, which in his head means spending some of his nights at home, and not giving up just because it's a bit cold. 

He contemplates the washing up he hasn't done, hoping there would be hot water again by tonight, and the laundry he knew wouldn't dry with the flat so cold. The bedroom seems particularly bleak: the sheets almost feel damp along with the chill. He'd really like a proper shower, not just washing with a kettle's worth of hot water. 

He texts: 'boiler's dead - no heating for a while'. The reply is swift: 'come over then. What do you want for dinner?' 

 

Later, basking in the warmth of Arthur's house, he leans his head on Arthur's thigh and congratulates himself on a decision well made. He has been fed, taken the hottest shower he could stand, and then sprawled on the sofa with a Poirot borrowed from Arthur's bookcase. The fact that Arthur is using him as a human desk, balancing journal articles on him as he lies there, doesn't bother him in the slightest.   
He fidgets, just because he can. 

"Stop that," Arthur says around the pen in his mouth. "I'm nearly done." 

William hums his contentment and settles again. He doesn't mind waiting to go to bed. Poirot is gathering his suspects together and Captain Hastings suspects the red herring. 

"Too obvious," he mutters to himself. 

Arthur makes an enquiring noise, scribbling something in irate red ink on the paper. William holds up his book. 

“The red herring – she’s too obvious to be the murderer.” 

"Ah. Unlike this then. I've no idea what he's trying to conclude and it's my bloody research." 

William is momentarily glad that he's not one of Arthur's post docs. "Am I distracting you? I know you said you had to work tonight. If it hadn't been for the boiler..." 

"I was hardly going to let you freeze to death. And you don't distract me. I like you being here." 

"High praise indeed." 

Arthur swats him lightly on the backside. 

"I like being here," William says more seriously. There's a pause. 

"So stay here," Arthur says, "don't go back to your flat. Just stay." 

"You mean... until the boiler’s fixed?”

There’s a rather awkward silence. William looks at Arthur, who looks away. 

“Yes… that’s what I meant. Until they mend the boiler.” Arthur puts down the draft paper, circles the last paragraph and adds ‘REWRITE’ in large, red letters. 

William returns to his book. Arthur puts the TV on to catch the news. There’s something rather wrong though: the previously comfortable silence feels fractured. Although Arthur has his hand tucked under the edge of William’s t-shirt, thumb running over the skin there, William gets the feeling he isn’t happy. He has his own feelings of disappointment, thinking for a moment that Arthur had been suggesting more than a temporary arrangement. He wonders if Arthur is annoyed at him for assuming that he had. 

Poirot concludes that Hasting’s chosen suspect couldn’t possibly be the murderer. William sighs. 

“Will,” Arthur says quietly. 

“Yes?” 

“That wasn’t what I meant earlier. About staying until your boiler is sorted. I meant permanently. And I know you wanted to wait until your new job started but… the offer’s there. If you want it. I understand if you don’t.” 

“Arthur…”

“Or if you want we could look for somewhere else. You don’t have to move in with me, we could find somewhere to live together.”

“Arthur…” 

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but…”

William kisses him. It seems the only thing to do in the circumstances. 

 

Afterwards, when William is draped possessively over Arthur in bed, Arthur sighs contentedly and says, “does that mean yes, then?”

“Mmm… I think so.” 

“I meant it, about choosing somewhere else if you prefer. I don’t want you to feel that this isn’t your space.” 

William wriggles into a more comfortable position. “I like this house though. It’s got space. And your bed is much nicer than mine. You also have heating.” 

“Think about it.” 

“I’m thinking. I mean it. But I do like this house, and I like being here with you. Although you might have to give up some space on the bookcase.” 

“We can buy another bookcase.” Arthur is smiling: William can hear it in his voice. 

“True.” 

“And you’ll stay here for now? Until your landlord fixes the heating?” 

William listens to the rain outside and thinks of his cold flat with a shiver. “Definitely.” 

“Good. I didn’t like to think of you there, being cold.” 

William kisses him on the shoulder. “I’m not cold now.” It’s true, and the memory of being cold makes the warmth even more welcome. “You know,” he says, “of all the ways to fix the boiler problem, this wasn’t one I’d thought of.” 

“And that,” Arthur says, smug but half asleep, “is why you need me.”


	12. First Day of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of the Grant/De Lancey modern AU where the two of them meet at university and bond over baking cakes (the first fic can be found in the first twelve days of Christmas series). This is their wedding day.

The past twenty-four hours have been a blur. Acute anxiety yesterday morning, over suits and rings and last minute preparations, made worse by enforced separation in the name of tradition. Reaching an unexpected breaking point over his stupidly rebellious hair and an ill-timed comment about second thoughts. Explaining to his eldest brother that he had never doubted for a moment that this was right, it was just the getting married part that worried him, until Alex had laughed at him and told him he'd be fine. 

Then arriving early and standing waiting with Jon beside him, wondering if he was going to cry or something equally mortifying. His mum, in the front row with a big hat, hankie in hand as she had been for all his brothers' weddings in turn. The snapshot clarity of Will as he arrives, stunningly gorgeous in his suit, meeting Colley's eyes. 

Thinking, my God, this is real.

Vows. In front of people. Somehow not stuttering. Or crying. Gaze locked with Will.  
Photos and drinks to follow with dizzying congratulations, torn every which way but tied to Will with every breath, always aware of him. Food, long planned but somehow untasted. Speeches in varying levels of emotion and rudeness. His mother, having won a campaign for the right of the mother of the groom to make a speech when there was no father of the bride, held the room in the palm of her hand and spoke so warmly of Will that he looked somewhere between brimming joy and tears. Colley hopes someone got a photograph of that: he wants to treasure it. 

The dancing was no less a blur than the rest, but a more relaxed one. He'd danced with everyone or so it seemed, and most with Will. Dazed with happiness. They'd been sent to bed by their guests in alarming state. Colley thinking horrified thoughts about Great Aunt Sarah waving him off to his wedding night, and telling him what a handsome young man he'd found himself. 

Alone at last they'd been so tired suddenly, and so relieved to be together without the crowd. They'd dropped, fully dressed, onto the bed and laid there, asking each other if it was real. Realising with laughter that they really were too tired for sex. Tea, and sleep, Will spooning him from behind and mumbling 'mine' into his hair. 

Now, waking in the cool of morning, he finally has time to take stock. Will is still sleeping beside him, breathing deeply, almost a snore. Colley feels so incredibly fond of him, with his hair sticking up and the creases from the pillow on his face. His husband. He almost giggles at the thought of it. He has a husband. 

His laughter has woken Will, who stirs, opening one bleary eye. "Hey," he mumbles. He rolls closer and links their hands. The rings are shiny new on their fingers. Colley is almost looking forward to a time when they will look respectably worn in, marking the passage of time together. For now though, the day is young and their marriage not twenty four hours old. They have all the time in the world, and a wedding night to make up for. 

"Hey yourself," he says, and begins as he means to go on.


End file.
